DeviousMe

((*pokes Khell* ))

"Not entirely sure." Acid answered Matt, "I'm not really a telepath yet. All I know is there's a lot of anxiety in the air, and a big ball of it's coming right for us. Either someone just got some really bad news, or we've got a very nervous intruder."

Considering for a moment, Acid decided to leave it at that. The conversation going on beyond the door wasn't anybody's business just yet. It would be soon, but that could wait.

Acid couldn't help but laugh quietly to himself. Static really didn't seem to have any idea what was going on here...

Acid gave a chuckle, slinking back to his spot to lean on the wall. He supposed he really should be doing more research on these creatures sometime. Most curious, they were.

Then again, so had been their ancestors. They'd worn clothes virtually all the time as well, even when on a planet and having no need for pockets to carry anything. Yet they'd still managed to build a great nation.

Acid found himself chasing these thoughts away. Every time he went back to the time trap, he got lost in what might have happened had the future never connected to the past. Logic said it couldn't happen, as the connection had been necessary, and if it hadn't been there, things never would have turned out how they did, so it had to have been there because they did turn out just so.

Acid shook his hooded head violently. It figured. Try to stop thinking about something and there you go, he thought about it even more. Typical.

Then he suddenly froze.

"We might have a problem." he told the others as he slid off the wall, "The level of emotional distress in this building just went up considerably. Something's wrong..."

"Yeah, that'd probably be bad." Acid nodded thoughtfully, turning to Cedric, "Unless he can cut out the whole breathing through his skin thing. But I don't think humans can do that, right...?"

"I wouldn't worry too much about that." Acid added to Gabe's explanation, "Arachnos isn't known for generous dissemination of intelligence, so as long as you guys stay away from surveillance systems linked to their network, chances are you'll be fine."

"Heh, come to think of it," he chuckled quietly, the hooded head looking down at the cloak, "Longbow isn't much better at it..."

"Aquatically is probably a bad idea." Acid retorted, standing somewhat anonymously in the far back until now, "No, I think the public channels will be better. I'll just have a gate made to the DPO in Grandville. Recluse doesn't bother with the place, and I highly doubt my associates would have any disposition to tell him their gate got something not from White Plains."

"As for the location of Ms. Inquiry," he went on, "I'm somewhat confident I can get that out of Scirocco. Ghosty bugs him almost as much as she does Scorpion. You guys focus on getting to Mercy, I'll see what I can get location-wise. The ferry system's got no security aside from the drones, and they're not hard to fool..."

"Duly noted." Hotaka smiled generously in his glance at the card, "So hitting targets of opportunity, hm? Not a bad idea, unless the enemy's production can outstrip your destruction."

"Quite true." Baalial nodded, pulling a manila folder from his briefcase and handing it to Vendetta, "Intelligence. From our client. Uncannily thorough, practically up to the minute. Give you any ideas...?"

((You're fine - it's always nice to see that a story has readers, especially one done by multiple authors. ))

"Hm." Baalial nodded at the summary in comment, dragging the growling briefcase back to himself in order to pull a laptop from the obviously tooth-rimmed carrier.

"Yes, I can see a few things that would accomplish that here." the demon scowled as he went over a few documents, "Though I do wonder what happened to Hotaka. Trapping his kind has never been an easy task."

"I think I know where I am." Ryuu threw in with calm tone, "But it'd be a bad idea to wake me right now."

"Right." smirked Baalial, closing and stowing the laptop once more, "So tell me, what does your mind make of this odd coincidence?"

"Not sure yet." Hotaka shrugged, "The guy didn't smell human, but other than that I didn't find anything odd about him."

"Hm." the lawyer remarked, considering, "Me neither."

Noting Vendetta's questioning expression, Baalial went on to explain, "The man who hired us called himself V as well. And with the whole V for vendetta thing...well, it's just kind of odd."

"Yeah," Hotaka nodded, "you wouldn't happen to have any plans of sending yourself back in time to hire us anytime soon, would you?"

"Why do you say that?" the demon questioned with a quizzical expression, "If it had been Toy, I could've told from his soul."

"Hm, guess so." Ryuu answered, "It's just that the guy smelled like a machine. I know, I know, it's far-fetched and all."

"Let's leave it be for now, we have a job to do." suggested the demonic lawyer, turning to Vendetta again, "So the resistance fighters are losing their open war, hm? And what is your present strategy...?"

"Ryuu Hotaka." the tall man introduced himself with a short bow towards Caleb, a much-saying smile playing about in his half-hidden face, "Pleased to meet you."

"Baalial." grinned the draconic demon toothily, "Attorney at Law."

The briefcase gave a growl as it moved closer to Psycho13, the demonic lawyer adding, "And Balthazar, somewhere in there. It'll probably spit him out again sooner or later - hopefully before I require the services of my secretary..."

Small Toy didn't take long to bring the 'intruders' back. Baalial's eyes widened a bit as he beheld the golden robot, stopping dead in his tracks a few meters from him. Was this really the colorful mechanoid of old?

"Toy!" Hotaka exclaimed with a broad smile, having no such doubts. The smell had been irrefutable. It was almost comical to watch the tall, lanky man in oriental robes close the remaining distance with speed, then embrace the living machine, going so far as to lift him off his feet for a few moments.

"Man, am I glad to see you." Ryuu laughed as he set 'Vendetta' down again, placing both hands upon the mechanoid's shoulders as he went on, "We'd already thought LMOUSVEV was over and done with in this timetrack. Well, spit it out already - who, what, where, when...?"

Acid gave a satisfied nod. He had to admit he was glad to get right to the point for once. Usually, the guys on the blue side of the fence never stopped with their questions - who he was, why he wore the silly cloak, and so on and so forth. He liked remaining covert, and this was a welcome change.

"I wouldn't worry." he commented on Jay's mutterings, "If need be, I can always call for backup. Now then, do follow me. I think Gabe has a little more to show you..."

Acid gave a short shrug, the wide shoulders of his heavy gray cloak rising and falling in silent answer to Gabe. However, the hooded head did give a nod, and so he turned to guide his steps into the main hall, where the task force had assembled.

"I see we've got some jumpy ones." he chuckled, arriving just after Officer Scheller's shaky introduction, "That might be a good thing. So then, I take it you think you're prepared...?"

It didn’t take me long to make my way to the train station. The majestic archways of the main building’s masonry stood out quite respectably, even in the drab gray of the day, and I’d probably have found the place without any aerial photography at all. Sadly, that didn’t make my job any easier. The same reason the station area had been simple to find made it difficult to locate the train I wanted.

The place was huge. I had trouble just finding the information booth, let alone anything truly specific. Some secret agent I was. Intend to spy on something that could be seen from the air, then fail to even find it on the ground. Why did that sound so typical?

Eventually however, I managed to get my bearings and make myself a rough mental map of the place, being once more thankful for the snapshots sent to me. It would’ve likely taken me twice as long if I hadn’t looked those over a few more times before leaving the apartment. Though the whole place seemed to have been painted in grayscale, after a while I was able to tell things apart enough to get a good feel for where I was, where I was going, and where I really should have been going. Needless to say, those didn’t quite coincide just yet.

Then I spotted them.

From the footbridge running over the terminal platforms, I recognized one of the serial numbers I’d been looking for. Of course, it was only after the armed guards had caught my attention that said numerical scheme was actually observed closely enough to recognize. As my boss always said, “If you want to hide something properly, hide it in plain sight.”

Obviously, they weren’t hiding this train. They were showing it off, and in a look-but-don’t-touch fashion to boot. The burly guardsmen of the Soviet military were an effective deterrent, and passersby stayed well clear of them and the platform, knowing all too well that the affairs of the communist government were something to be best not involved in. Still, there were a few curious ones, loitering about and wondering as I did (though probably not for the same reasons) what the definitely military staff was loading into those cargo cars in finely sealed boxes.

Passing my gaze over the intriguing scene, I found Kirov near the engine, conversing with what looked like an officer of rank, standing amidst clouds of slowly migrating condensation and steam from the locomotive. They seemed to be having an argument. Either that or someone had spilled some good vodka. A mortal sin in my opinion.

My eyes kept wandering, surveying the scene, and locked onto the statue not far from Kirov, the stone dragon and its pedestal resting on a cargo dolly suspiciously close. It wasn’t very large, only about the size of a hefty dog, perhaps a Great Dane, and I once again wondered why the doctor kept it around everywhere he went.

“Mighty bizarre, wouldn’t you say, old chap?” suddenly came a voice from behind my with a defined British accent, nearly sending my heart fleeing from my chest. I pride myself on being very hard to sneak up on, and I’d never gotten even a hint of this guy!

“Oh now, don’t fret.” the man came into view as I turned about to face him. He wasn’t much to look at, mummified in the same get-up as I to shield himself from the biting cold. The only thing I could see was a pair of brown eyes on pale skin, and that he stood just a bit shorter than me.

“I’m just glad to see you.” the Brit continued, extending a hand that I grasped only with caution, only to be pulled very close the next second in the traditional fashion of a pair of old friends greeting one another here in Russia. However, the moment he whispered the code into my ear, I knew what was going on and returned the gesture. Then we both laughed heartily like two brothers who hadn’t seen each other in ages.

His name was Rimsey, or at least that’s what he asked me to call him. Agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Not quite sure why they called MI6 that all the time (I always thought the British were rather strange), but the code was proof enough for me. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones after Kirov, though Rimsey admitted he was more on the job of just finding out who he was before taking any direct action, whereas my role stood to some extent reversed.

He’d also observed the Morse code pattern, having initially assumed that it had been some sort of signal set up by our agencies, and that I’d been his contact man. He’d been on his own deep in Soviet territory for far longer than I, and needless to say his disappointment had been great that things hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected.

“Mighty bizarre.” he told me again, shaking his head as we watched the train in question, “So what do you suppose is in that statue? Some sort of jolly big secret, I’d wager. Has to be.”

I smiled. Now here was a man who loved his job, no matter how dangerous he knew it to be. Stealing secrets and slipping them right under people’s noses.

“Don’t have a clue.” I whispered back, both of us keeping our true dialogue hidden in casual conversation about the weather, grain prices, and those blasted Americans (spoken in my best Russian of course), “Whatever it is though, I’d say you’re right. The man’s hiding something. Something big. And I’m going to find out what. I’m getting on that train.”

“Why, seems the Yank’s got a spot of crazy in him.” the British agent chuckled, “I like that. I take it your big cheese back home wouldn’t mind if we worked together on this one, yes?”

I nodded. British Intelligence wasn’t exactly considered family, but our agencies worked closely enough to share a few secrets here and there. Heck, even if they hadn’t been, I’d have been foolish to turn down his offer.

The loud echo of a steam whistle turned our heads to the train. It wouldn’t be long before departure. Kirov had already boarded, and his weird statue had been loaded too. I often wondered if he was part of some sort of cult. It didn’t seem to fit. He was too smart a man for things like that. Be that as it may however, we now had two covert agents on potentially hostile soil with the express need to board a train under heavy guard by the Soviet military.

Piece of cake.

“Let’s go.” I gave Rimsey a nod, starting to walk as I observed the guards once more, “I’ve got an idea.”

Report Agent Dietrich

The door of my apartment seemed to sense my bad mood, the thick, solid slab of old wood swinging open no sooner than I’d twisted the key back from the dull metal of the lock. I quickly grabbed hold of the handle, taking a glance at the twine that tied together door and frame on the other side. It was unbroken. Nobody had been here in my absence. My spirits lifted a little as I undid the string, chalking up another strike against my paranoia. Maybe someday I’d get over it, maybe not. My superiors always told me we agents needed a healthy dose of it, though what exactly was healthy there was probably the elusive stuff of legends in the psychological warfare department.

I discovered an unopened envelope on the wooden boards of the floor as I fully opened the door, picking up the manila packet addressed to a Vladimir Panchev – my cover name while on this assignment. Sometimes I had to work hard not to lose my own name in this whole mess. Even Dietrich was only my work alias, the German word for skeleton key. I had to admit, I liked both the sound and meaning of it, but sometimes I was starting to wonder who I really was.
I hung my coat upon its rack in the narrow entryway of the apartment, then proceeded to the living room, carefully eyeing the envelope just in case. Soviet counterintelligence was vicious in their approach, and not picky in means. I fully expected a dose of Zyklon-B or something equally nasty in my mail any day now. True, the apartment wasn’t in any way connected with anything illicit, as agents used it only as a stopover, but the NSA had rented it for a few months already, and normally our hideouts didn’t last more than maybe half a year…at best.

Thankfully, the thing was real, though it wasn’t actually mail, instead only disguised as such. One of my contact men or a fellow agent must have dropped it off while I’d been out chasing Kirov.

Sitting down in the only chair of the sparsely furnished living room, I pulled the envelope’s contents from it and spread them on the coffee table as I proceeded to nurse the bottle of brandy I’d placed there earlier in the day for just such an occasion. They were photos, mostly aerial snapshots, and a few more intelligence reports I would have to add to my collection. Deciding to get right on the job, I stepped over to a niche of the room and lifted the fake portion of the wall out of the way, removing one of the locked briefcases in the space. I spread the contents of the case out on the table as well, comparing and contrasting the old with the new as I ran everything through my mind once more time from the beginning.

It had all started on December 2nd of last year, when NASA had shot up their STS-27 shuttle mission. In public, it had been a rousing success, but this was only due to the classified nature of what shuttle Atlantis carried at the time. “Department of Defense” had been marked as the mission, and the people were happy, thinking we’d have a new edge on the Soviets with it.

We probably would have too, if it hadn’t been for a critical component failure that had cut the mission drastically short. Thankfully, everyone had come back fine, but just about every intelligence agency had feared the worst at the time. The component had been with the payload, not the orbiter, but that hadn’t exactly made things better. Considering the thing had literally disintegrated for unknown reasons, the fears that the entire craft might have suffered the same fate had been hard to assuage.

An investigation was launched the same day, with absolutely everything scrutinized – from the testimony of news reporters to the factory bills for the payload. Nothing had turned up, not a single shred of evidence ever pointing in a conclusive direction. Only when somebody had gotten the downright crazy idea to find the original manufacturer of the component instead of the contractor who’d sold it did the little red flags begin to pop up.

General Cosmic Incorporated had been the name, and that’s where the trail had grown colder than arctic ice. Not to mention downright weird. Had someone in the records department just been reading too much science fiction? It hadn’t made any sense – such things were so expertly tracked that it was downright impossible for anyone to lose anything. Sure, things got buried under miles of red tape, but if one spent enough time digging for them, they were always there. Not so here. Not only was there that odd name, but also it was as if GC Inc. had been swallowed up from the face of the earth. No clues to operations, facilities, employment, but a phantom company through and through. That was, until someone within the CIA had made a wrong call and stumbled upon a relation. A name had come up: Doctor Alexei Nikolaevich Kirov.

Alarms had gone off all over that day. That sounded Soviet in so many ways it had sent the collective paranoia of the agencies so far through the roof that someone could probably climb all the way to the moon on the result. Not only that, but so many deals the DoD had made over the last few years had been connected with this guy it was downright scary. Most people suspected a red infiltration, and only when the case officially became NSA territory did things resume some normalcy.

I think we were the only agency that asked questions instead of letting fear get the better of us. We asked who and why, when, and where, what and how, and we started getting a few answers. If this really was a Soviet infiltration of our defense sector, its execution had been poor – most of the deals had helped more than they ever could have hurt. Still, things remained sketchy. Not only did Dr. Kirov seem to be only half a man (we found a good deal of information, but nowhere near enough to have this man be a real person), and what we found held up under scrutiny, but a few things were suspicious to say the least.

Nobody knew where this guy came from or his whereabouts most of the time. He did business by phone, at least mostly, and whenever he absolutely had to appear in person, he dragged this odd statue of a dragon around with him wherever he went. Said it brought him luck. Strange behavior to be sure, but other things were even more confusing, including why he’d run the first time I’d attempted to question him. It was my case, and mine alone, and I’d told him I called the shots here. He didn’t believe me, or at least gave the appearance of just that, telling me that if I knew what was really going on, I’d probably turn into a babbling moron, be decried as insane, and subsequently ousted from both the NSA as well as the entire intelligence community.

As I ran these things through my mind, however, the corner of my eye caught something on one of the photos that had just now been sent to me. It was an aerial snapshot of the Vladivostok train depot, and one of the rails had been building up some heavy traffic compared top the last shot I’d seen of it…not to mention a very, very odd pattern of traffic.

I took a pencil and a notepad as an idea fed into my brain that I’d thought I couldn’t hold my alcohol anymore and I’d gotten drunk off only a few sips of the bottle. But as I jotted down the pattern, I grew more and more sure that I wasn’t dreaming. The train cars were arranged in a definite scheme, an arrangement of single and tri-linked cars that could be clearly seen from the aerial photograph.

Dots and dashes. Morse code.

I didn’t know the code by heart anymore, though I did recognize it, and so it took me a few minutes to translate the message into anything resembling some sense. Of course, sense was a very relative term, as my initial feeling that I was just drunk or crazy returned upon the deciphered content. “C-O-M-E H-E-R-E” spelled the pattern, and I checked it three more times despite myself. I really wasn’t seeing things. It was there.

Finally, I decided to take it. After all, my last trail had grown cold, so what did I really have to lose? I picked up the phone and started dialing, requesting the schedule for the departure of the next few cargo trains out of Vladivostok under the pretense that I perhaps wished to ship a sizeable load of goods to Moscow. This proposition was good money, and it didn’t take long for me to get the departure schedule and serial numbers for the next few days as well as some numbers for the cars already on the tracks.

Initially, I couldn’t believe it as I was told they didn’t know where a certain train was going when I inquired about the number of one of the cars in the pattern. But as I asked more and more, they eventually warded me off with government confidentiality. I made a note of it, said my goodbyes, and hung up. Later in the day, I’d call a contact of mine to place an actual order while asking about that train as well, just so it didn’t seem suspicious. After all, it had a very convenient departure time, and had it been going to Moscow, it would’ve been a very desirable train.

Of course, it was still quite desirable to my person. A freight train of classified cargo and destination, not to mention so coincidentally spelling a message that could only be seen from the air? That I just had to have a look at.

[ QUOTE ]
it's perfectly perfect for your human mind

[/ QUOTE ]
I may not have one of those, but I highly doubt the truth in that statement.

"Toy?!" Baalial's demonic eyes grew wide, "Is that you? Yes, of course it is, I can feel the soul of the machine!"

"So that's why this place smelled so familiar." the tall man remarked with relief, "I thought my sense of smell was going nuts from the dark gateway. And didn't I tell you not to call me that? Arachnos may have labeled me that way, but I don't recall ever introducing myself as anything other than Ryuu Hotaka."

Hotaka seemed quite insulted by the address, crossing his arms in a pout, but the person at the other end of the speaker knew well he was just playing around - Ryuu spoke fluent Japanese and more than enough English to know that his name translated to Mountain Dragon.

Still, for some reason he didn't like to be called anything referring to any sort of dragon. He even detested dragon symbolism, especially when worn by those who just wanted to look 'cool' or 'tough'.

Toy knew this, of course. He also knew the reason, but had been sworn to secrecy. And after so long a time, one couldn't even blame a robot for forgetting one little detail.

"You'll need to tell us more of this." Baalial continued, "Truly, the only reason I'd stay in Hell for that long is due to a very, very profitable compact."

"Quite." chuckled Hotaka, not commenting on his own other self's fate for the same reasons, "And we are...though not quite with the terms you're using. We'll explain it in person. Be there in a minute."

Even though there wasn't anyone around to see, Hotaka pulled the bamboo coolie far down for a few moments, hiding his whole face in deepest shadow. A few sniffs could be heard, and then he gave a nod to Baalial.

The two quickly proceeded down the correct passage...

No, this person is just a retard who's been glued to his idiot box for too long.

There's this show on TV called Robot Chicken, which is a collection of short-duration parodies of just about everything. In one short, some guy dressed up as Captain Planet and started yelling "CAPTAIN PLANET!" at everyone while doing moronic things.

And they say too much TV doesn't rot your brain. Habeas corpus, I present thee.

"Did that thing just spit out our slogan?" the tall man questioned in amazement as he examined the speaker.

"I do believe so." the demon retorted, crossing his arms as he looked about the cavern, "Is this what our base is to become? I thought we were working with a much higher budget myself."

"Doubt it." retorted the man, turning his attention to the speaker again, "They probably knew we were coming. And yes, you are correct. LMOUSVEV's here, so if you're one of those Masters of Chaos..."

The demon cleared his throat, interjecting, "...Mayhem..."

"Whatever..." sneered the tall man, "...then...dangit, now the moment's gone. Thanks. Either way, we got hired to take you out. So save us the trouble of looking for you and we'll go easy on you..."

Unstop chash! Help! <--------- something you'd TRULY never hear States say.

"Negative." the figure chuckled, the hood of his heavy cloak swaying about as he shook his head slowly, "Undetected ain't gonna happen any way ya twist it. Too much sensor muck to fool everything. Only delay it."

"However," he continued, "I can cause a little general chaos so that when they do find us, they won't have that much to divert our way. Even old spider-head's got priorities. I take it you're in a hurry, so let's get this going ASAP..."

"Hm." the tall man commented as he leaped down into the hole, catching the drop with his knees, "I'd expected...something more lively. Do you think we're right here?"

The demon didn't respond for a moment as his wings caught on the edges of the rather small hatch, cursing in forgotten languages until he finally managed to writhe himself out - much like a cork from a champagne bottle.

"Well, that was amusing." he commented, brushing imaginary dust from his suit, motioning to his left-behind briefcase to follow, "And I'm not quite sure. I mean yes, secret underground base, obviously, but it's in major disrepair. From what the files said on the Masters of Mayhem, this can't be one of their facilities...could it?"

The tall man but shrugged as the two proceeded down the passage, the demon's briefcase following in a slow glide and back into his hand...

"Well now, that's odd." commented the overly tall man, tapping his chin in thought, "I was sure I'd heard voices over here."

"Quite so." retorted the demon, though nothing seemed to be around the rocks anymore, "We didn't see anyone leave. Perhaps a teleportation process?"

"No air collapse."

"Right."

The two stood there in thought for a moment, pondering where the source of the voices could have gone. The secret hatch was quite expertly camouflaged (after all, it'd been put in by a professional), and even standing only meters beside it, there was no way to tell it from the ground without something like a metal detector.

Hollow spaces, however, couldn't be camouflaged.

"I have an idea." announced the robed figure as he bent down, taking a fistful of dirt from the ground. A dastardly smirk played across his half-hidden face when he got the answer he wanted. He turned to the demon again, "Tunnel. Now all we need is a way in. You allowed to do your soul-tracking thing?"

"Not technically." the demon stepped uneasily, "And I don't really want to bend the rules more than I need to. What about you? No Dragon Eye or like that?"

"I'll have a look." sighed the man, letting his hidden gaze wander over the ground until he found a little thermal trace. The rest was easy.

"How interesting." remarked the demon as he laid a hand on the hidden entryway and attempted to simply pull open the hatch...

Labored breath mixed with the rapid tap of heavy boots upon frozen ground, the drumming echoes reverberating fast and noisily through the shadowy back alleys of Vladivostok. Night was not yet upon the city, but it may as well have been, the overcast skies so thick that they dipped the port into a downright depressing murk.

Depression however, was the last thing on the man’s mind as he ran, his great gray overcoat flapping about in the draft of his wake, catching on more than one misfortunate trash can or misplaced stack of boxes, the heavy-set figure tearing them over with thunderous noise in an effort to block the path of his pursuer. Dr. Alexei Kirov knew the one giving chase, the sapphire eyes peeking from the assembly of ushanka and thick cloth covering the rest of his face daring to look back a moment to verify that the pursuer was still on his trail.

“Stop right there!” came the confirming shout from back down the lane in distinct, clear American English, prompting Kirov to pick up the pace, dashing madly down the maze of alleys to escape his pursuer.

Agent Dietrich swore as he once more hesitated, the pistol clutched firmly in both hands at the end of outstretched arms, for a second time rushing back down to his side as the man stormed after Kirov. His boots gave telltale report as well, but that couldn’t be avoided if he didn’t want to freeze to death in the cold climate of Siberia. Why didn’t threats to national security ever hole up in Hawaii? Just what was wrong with warm climates anyway?

Dietrich’s thoughts were cut short as he rounded a corner and promptly stumbled over an overturned garbage can, just barely managing to keep on his feet. He swore again as his brown overcoat caught the lid, threatening his already teetering balance. Clattering after him raucously, the thing thankfully stumbled across a lantern pole with more allure after a few moments. Nevertheless, Agent Dietrich almost lost his ushanka in the process, having to press the thick fur hat to his head to make sure it stayed there.

Thick clouds of condensation billowed from his mouth, now little more than a set of pale lips in an unshaven face, thick black stubble already forming below piercing gray eyes. Unlike Kirov, he wasn’t wearing a cloth, the frost of the cold Vladivostok air evening out the initial advantage the slim and limber Deitrich had over Kirov’s larger and much more substantial frame. Still, he was slowly catching up, and both of them knew it.

Dietrich heard a loud crash around the next corner, seeing the cause as soon as he rounded the twist of the passage. Kirov had kicked down the door to an obviously condemned building, the partially shattered windows of all seven floors boarded up from the inside. The agent wasted no time, forcing his way through the remains of the door and into a stairwell filled with dust and gloom, only a few rays of the already sparse sunlight making their way in through spaces in the window boards and wall cracks. From above sounded steps at speedy pace, the winding metal staircase rumbling with every impact of a boot.

But now there was another sound, clearly audible and getting closer every second.

The characteristic beat of helicopter blades.

Dietrich swore again, gripping his gun firmly as he stormed up the stairwell with all he had, already out of breath from the chase through the city. The ascension seemed to take an eternity, the racket of the chopper coming closer with every second that ticked by. It felt as if the building trembled from the proximity, and the agent by now imagined the aircraft directly overhead, having to remind himself again and again that couldn’t yet be. It was but the shaking of the staircase under two pairs of heavy boots that created the illusion.

Another crash echoed from above, a beam of light flooding the top of the staircase with illumination. Against the murk of the building, the little bit of light seemed almost blindingly radiant as Dietrich charged through the door to the roof that Kirov had broken down. He pondered again at the man’s physical strength. Kirov really didn’t look all that strong. Especially now, the heavy-set man running across the loose gravel of the flat roof to its edge.

“Stop!” Dietrich roared after the doctor, bringing his pistol to bear, “I mean it! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

To his great surprise, not to mention relief, Kirov indeed stopped running, if only a few steps from the rim of the roof.

“Hands on your head!” the agent commanded with determined intent, the doctor only slowly complying as Dietrich repeated slower and more clearly, “Hands on your head! I won’t say it again! Now turn around!”

Now came what he’d expected even less. Kirov started to laugh – first in but a light chuckle, then the same roaring laugh that had been made famous in the old pubs of the Soviet Union.

“Go ahead, comrade.” Kirov added with a heavy Slavic accent as the turned about, speaking mostly broken English (at best), “Shoot me if you want. It does not matter. You cannot catch me.”

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Agent Dietrich warned as he advanced on the doctor, seeing Kirov take a step backwards to the edge of the roof, “It doesn’t have to end this way!”

“I beg to differ, comrade.” Kirov chortled, taking his hands off his head and raising his arms into the sky, “I am afraid I cannot be caught by you, anyone else.”

“Why?!” Dietrich shouted, imploring him not to jump, “Doctor, you’re not making any sense! This isn’t worth your life! Why?!”

“Because you are not ready, comrade.”

All of a sudden, the approaching helicopter roared by overhead, flying dangerously low, the buffeting winds forcing Agent Dietrich to the ground. Thinking quickly, he tried to shield his eyes as the downwash kicked up dirt and gravel from the roof. By the time he could see clearly again, Kirov was gone from the roof and far away, hanging by one arm from a landing strut of the aircraft while waving insultingly with the other. He’d taken his ushanka off his head, holding it by one of the earflaps. Dietrich imagined he could almost see the smug, condescending smile underneath the cloth that still covered half his face.

Dietrich swore again, throwing his own hat onto the gravel of the roof in frustration. But only for a moment, as he quickly realized just how cold it was, snatching the ushanka up again and draping it firmly over his head once more. Kirov had gotten away again – and he’d been so close…so close, and yet so far. The agent shook his head. This wouldn’t look good on his next report no matter which way he spun it.

Foreword:

Due to the somewhat disconcerting conspiracy of factors outside of my direct circle of control (such as people poking me, time off, and being bitten by the writing bug...again ), I have lo and behold, against my better judgment thrown rationality out the window (don't worry, he'll be fine - I do this to him all the time) and will be going ahead with the story that I realized a little while ago doesn't actually have a name yet.

So in lieu of a title or name, allow me to suggest the character of this work by simply calling it what it is: a big amalgamation of amalgamated blurbs correlating within and without in the same general chronology of happening.

As this is rather large, translating this whole thing may take months, even years, and this thread may in not a long while grow very long indeed. But as I wish for the continued well being of my own tail (i.e. not to be bitten by Essex or other potential candidates) I have decided that we shall simply cross that bridge when we come to it.

Thus being, readers might at first find themselves somewhat estranged as what would generally classified as a futuristic sci-fi tale begins in the dark and dreary past of what is and what might have been had things not been as they were. But this verbiage veers most verbose, and so let me inform that I have decided to merely translate from the original document without instilling gross changes to form and function this time as, let's face it, I haven't quite gone that insane yet.

So without further ado, let us now take you back to whence when and where into a world few have ever known existed, even though one sees it every single day...